


Care Taking

by Siria



Category: Thoughtcrimes
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendan couldn't read her mind—at least, there was no quirk to his genes that would let him send his thoughts out to seek hers; no way for him to know how the fever Freya was running made her mind feel sluggish and slow, how each limb felt as if it were weighted down with lead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care Taking

**Author's Note:**

> For hebrew_hernia.

Brendan couldn't read her mind—at least, there was no quirk to his genes that would let him send his thoughts out to seek hers; no way for him to know how the fever Freya was running made her mind feel sluggish and slow, how each limb felt as if it were weighted down with lead. His only advantage came from patient observation and long-kindled affection—but this was Brendan, after all, and what advantages he had, he'd been well trained in how to use.

He nagged her all morning until she agreed to leave work early, before driving her back to his place and leaving her to doze on the couch in his living room while he puttered around his kitchen. Freya burrowed gladly underneath the soft weight of a knitted throw and Brendan's overcoat, burying her nose into the warm wool of Brendan's coat and breathing in the comforting scent of aftershave and clean soap. She let herself drift until Brendan came back, shirt sleeves rolled up, bearing a cluttered tray loaded down with bowls of chicken noodle soup, soft French bread, a steaming mug of peppermint tea, a glass of water and an oversized bottle of Ibuprofen.

"C'mon," he said, helping her to sit up. "Atta girl."

Freya's throat was too raw to speak, but she raised an eyebrow at him until Brendan rolled his eyes a little and said, "Okay, okay, atta _woman_."

Freya smirked, but complied meekly when Brendan handed her some pills with a stern order to just _take_ them this time, geez. She swallowed, wincing, and then gratefully accepted the steaming bowl of soup he handed her. The soup was salty and rich and just what she needed, and she made a little noise of gratitude after the first swallow.

"'S'what I'm here for," Brendan told her, and stooped to press a kiss to her forehead before settling down cross-legged on the floor next to her. Freya grinned at him, and Brendan reddened a little, looked down at his own bowl and mumbled, "Eat your soup."

And Freya ducked her own head and did just that, because Brendan could read her and she could read him—could read the timbre of his thoughts that was attachment and affection and a love he couldn't voice—not just yet.


End file.
